


Not All the King's Horses, Nor All the King's Men

by Devilc



Category: Ex Machina
Genre: Comics, Pre-Slash, Science Fiction, Unresolved Sexual Tension, WildStorm - Freeform, Yuletide, Yuletide 2006
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great Machine discovers that there's a hole in his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not All the King's Horses, Nor All the King's Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apathy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/gifts).



> Written as a stocking stuffer for Apathy in the Yuletide 2006 Challenge. I've always found the Pherson &amp; Hundred dynamic to be incredibly provoking (and slashy) and while I will probably never write my story where Pherson is the madwoman in the attic of Gracie Mansion, I did write this.

Several times as a child, Mitchell Hundred woke from dreams in which he had a twin.

He couldn't really give any details about the dreams except to say that he just _knew_ he had a twin. That always in these dreams there was the presence of his other half. Identical? Fraternal? Boy? Girl? Hell if he could say. What took place in these dreams, what did he and his twin do? Mitch couldn't really tell you. He woke with little more than just this vivid, _unshakable_ feeling. He had only this sense of _knowing_.

He even went so far as to ask his mother about it when he was nine. Very solemnly, one summer afternoon, approaching her where she sat on the patio, having a cool drink as she smoked and read a battered paperback. Drawing in a deep breath, he told her that he would understand why she hadn't told him before, but really, he needed to know, did he have a twin that had died at birth or had to be given away because she was too poor to care for two children ... like happened sometimes in stories?

She laughed and ruffled his hair and said, "No, silly. It's just you." and went back to her gin rickey and Danielle Steel novel.

As Mitch grew older and began to reach out to girls (and even, tentatively, a few boys) ... it just never felt right. There was always something missing, something not quite there. And, in the end, no matter how much he tried, the relationship always went south.

It didn't help that Mitch_ knew_ this wasn't about being gay or even asexual. He just couldn't explain to his mother (by this time deep in the bottle) or his friends, not even Kremlin, that he had this feeling — _an itch in his brain_ — that he just needed to find his twin from another mother. His compliment. His equal and opposite. And that once he found this person (and vice versa, because he just knew that s/he had to be having the same frustrations in life) it would all just click and he'd be locked into the most important  the defining relationship  of his life.

As time went by, as he looked at other couples and sighed, as he dodged yet another round of questions about his non-existent love life, as he endured well meant friends playing matchmaker, Mitch comforted himself with this knowledge. The perfect somebody _was_ out there. He had no need to settle for an almost but not quite that would leave him tangled in a relationship — or, worse yet, with children of his own — when _the_ person finally showed up. He just had to wait and be ready.

Really, it was better this way.

~oo(0)oo~

Numb horror lurked under the adrenaline surge sheer terror of his encounters with Pherson. He denied knowing it when he heard Pherson speak the words, denied having any idea what Pherson was talking about, but Mitch _knew_ it the moment he laid eyes on him.

Jack Pherson. He of the striking goth-boy pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and wild midnight mop of curls. (As opposed to Mitch's more "all American" looks.) He of the poet's cape and parrot on the shoulder. (Where Mitch had his techie looking flight suit and jet-pack.)

At long last, his yearned for equal and opposite.

He who could talk to animals the way that Mitch could talk to machines.

Pherson, who speaks of how he and Mitch with their great gifts were meant for great things, that theirs is a great destiny.

However, Pherson's wrong about that last bit. Theirs _was_ a great destiny.

But, and Mitch doesn't exactly know how or why, the fact of the matter is this: his longed for twin, his longed for partner, his perfect opposite and compliment, the one who completes him, is horribly, horribly broken. He remembers how his own gifts left him teetering on the brink during those first chaotic moments as his mind struggled to sort through the maelstrom of voices, make sense of the pandemonium raging through his head. He wonders if Pherson's gift turned on all at once — like his — only Pherson couldn't handle it, and if that's what pushed him over the edge.

It burns in Mitch, the longing. Pherson is somewhere in the five boroughs, but he might as well be on fucking Pluto for all the comfort he brings Mitch.

He's _the one_. Mitch knows this down to his bones.

But Pherson's broken.

The logical side of Mitch, the side used to dealing with life's disappointments tells him that Pherson is probably beyond repair, that he's bat-shit insane and Mitch is going to have to destroy him. (The idea of it makes him sick inside; he seethes every time Kremlin or Bradbury suggests it.) He understands that Pherson is a monster and a danger to everybody, including himself. Because, God forbid, what if Pherson learned how to talk to humans? Because humans are animals too ... sort of.

On the other hand, the yearner, the dreamer, _the needer_ in Mitch has begun to whisper ideas about how biology is a sort of machine, right? It's all systems made up of parts, right? And he ... he can make any machine do anything he wants, right? Biological machines repair themselves all the time. So, all he needs to do is find a way to make ... just find a way to extend his gift, right? And then, maybe he can — he barely has the courage to whisper the words even in his own head, the hope is _that_ fragile — make Pherson fix himself, and then, finally, _finally_, they can be whole. Together they can be the greatness that was meant to be.

But mostly, especially on nights after their encounters, The Great Machine sits alone in his apartment — well, as alone as he'll ever be in an apartment with thousands of machines in earshot — and buries his head in his hands, and tries not to give in to despair.


End file.
